


Draco Malfoy & The Time McGonagall Forced Him to Try Muggle Camping

by flammable_grimm_pitch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Camping, Canon Divergence - Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Draco Malfoy is Clueless About Muggle Things, Drarry, Enemies to Friends, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Inter-House Unity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Muggle Studies, Never Have I Ever, Nightmares, POV Draco Malfoy, Sharing A Tent, Whatever the opposite of slow burn is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26641075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_grimm_pitch/pseuds/flammable_grimm_pitch
Summary: The eighth-year students are required to organize and attend a week-long camping trip for their mandatory Muggle Studies class, as instructed by Headmistress McGonagall. Draco and Harry are paired up, and shenanigans ensue.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hannah Abbott/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've been writing purely for fun. I'll make corrections when I (inevitably) find mistakes.

If I hear McGonagall say the words “house unity” ever again, I’m going to scream.

It’s one thing to ask the eighth-year students to deal with a bit of dormitory sharing when there isn’t enough space for us anywhere else. We’ve all got our own beds, and the dormitories are large enough that we’ve all got a bit of space to breathe. It’s another thing entirely when the headmistress calls for a mandatory Muggle Studies field trip that requires _camping,_ and insists that we partner up with someone from another house. Because _of course_ I get lotted with Harry fucking Potter. 

Each set of partners has been assigned a specific task for the trip, from writing a packing list (Granger and Pansy) to organizing food (Weasley and Goldstein) to acquiring the necessary equipment – no wizarding shortcuts allowed. Potter and I have been given the task of purchasing tents, which apparently means that we’ll have to visit a sporting goods store. (What the hell even _is_ that?) 

McGonagall must be having a good fucking laugh about this whole business. I’m required to be accompanied by an auror any time I leave Hogwarts (with the exception of visiting Hogsmeade), so Potter and I have a babysitter coming along on our little shopping trip. It’s decided that Potter and I will walk down to the Three Broomsticks, travel via Floo to the Leaky Cauldron, and meet the auror there. We’ve got permission to be in London for no more than three hours, so I hope Potter knows what he’s doing. 

* * * * * 

“You can’t wear _that,_ Malfoy,” Potter snorts the moment I enter the common room. I glance down at my clothes in confusion but don’t see what the problem is. My mother insisted that a crisp white long-sleeved blouse, a sport coat, fitted black trousers and a solid-coloured tie would be appropriate for an outing. What the hell is Potter on about? 

“And why not?” I demand, crossing my arms over my chest. “These _are_ Muggle clothes, are they not?” 

“They are, but they’re much too formal for this sort of thing,” he says, stifling a laugh. “Haven’t you got anything a little more casual?” My blank expression is answer enough. 

_More casual? How does one get more casual than this without looking like a bum?_

Potter walks off towards the boys dormitories, expecting me to follow, which I (begrudgingly) do. 

The door of the room he shares with Blaise, Ernie Macmillan, and Michael Corner is wide open, which I take as an invitation to enter. To my deep concern, Potter is searching through his wardrobe. 

“I sincerely hope you don’t think I’m about to borrow something from you,” I protest because that really isn’t going to happen. 

“It’s either that or you take a zero on this part of the assignment,” he answers. “I’m not going to be seen in public with a bloke who looks like he’s about to argue a case in court.” 

“Fine. What would you suggest I wear instead?” 

Potter hands me a heather blue t-shirt, a pair of dark, slim-cut jeans and a long-sleeved garment with a zipper running up the middle. It’s got a roundish hood attached to it, much different from the pointed hoods on our robes. 

“T-shirts and jeans are what most Muggle blokes our age wear to the shops, or when they’re not going anywhere fancy,” Harry explains, “And the hoodie is like a light jacket; it’s just meant to keep you warm but isn’t waterproof like a raincoat. The shoes you’ve got on are fine, but I’ve got a pair of trainers that would look more casual.” 

He points to a pair of black shoes with white toes, laces, and soles. I vaguely recall Granger showing a similar pair of shoes to Pansy, but they were red. This must be a popular Muggle style of footwear. 

“I’ve got nearly half a foot on you,” I remind him, “So I’ll have to use an extending charm on the trousers, and probably on the shoes as well. It’s fine to stretch things out, but the spell to shrink them back isn’t as effective.” I feel bad about ruining something Potter has been kind enough to lend me. 

“S’fine,” he says with a dismissive wave. “I’ve got other clothes. Just get changed quickly so we won’t be late.” And with that, Potter heads for the door and pulls it shut behind him, leaving me with a private space to dress. 

* * * * * 

When I stumble forward from the hearth at the Leaky Cauldron, a pair of strong arms catch me before I hit the floor. By the time I’ve managed to right myself and brush the soot from the sleeves of the sweater Potter loaned me, the Boy Who Lived Twice appears behind me in a flash of green fire. He shakes hand with the red-robed fellow that kept me from breaking my nose, who must be the auror that has been assigned to supervise our outing. 

“Good to see you, Auror Finch,” Potter greets him cordially. “Ready for an exciting afternoon in Muggle London?” 

“If you consider shopping to be ‘exciting’, then I suppose I am,” the dark-eyed auror says with a chuckle. The man turns to me and gives me a quick once-over. His eyebrows draw together in surprise when he sees me dressed similarly to Potter instead of in wizard’s robes. 

“And you must be Mr. Malfoy,” Finch assumes correctly. “You’ve left your wand at school, I hope?” 

“Yes, sir,” I nod, my gaze falling to the floor. “I left it with the headmistress for safekeeping.” 

Many of the conditions of my parole are related to the use of my wand, and one of those conditions states that I may not take my wand off of Hogwarts property while enrolled as a student at the school. Its use is limited even at school; my wand is subject to random and frequent checks of its spell history, which are done (supposedly) to ensure that I’m not using it for dark or illegal magic. Really, I think this is all a way for the ministry to hold my mistakes over my head, and to make an example of me; only an idiot would continue to follow in the footsteps of the Dark Lord. 

“Let’s be off then, shall we?” Potter suggests, regarding me curiously. “Plenty to do between now and supper.” Auror Finch sheds his robes, folds them neatly, and performs a quick shrinking charm before tucking them away in the front pocket of his trousers. His clothes look a bit more business-like than Potter’s and mine do, but I suppose that’s because he’s a fair bit older, and is technically on the job. 

Our first stop is at Gringotts, where McGonagall has tasked Potter with exchanging the wizard money she’s given him to purchase the camping supplies. To my surprise, he also asks the goblin at the exchange desk to allow us down to the Potter family vault so that he might retrieve some spending money. 

“Did you want to stop by your vault as well, Malfoy?” Potter asks. “I can wait up here if you’d like some privacy.” 

“Er, no thanks,” I say, patting the pocket that contains my coin purse. “I’ve enough for today, I think.” I make a note to exchange some of my own spending money for Muggle banknotes. These clothes Potter has loaned me are surprisingly comfortable, and it might be best to buy some of my own for the camping trip. Plus, robes aren’t particularly conducive to outdoor activities. 

A bank employee leads us through the door at the back of the main banking area and instructs the three of us – Potter, Finch, and myself – to board one of the carts that will take us down to Potter’s vault. There are really only two seats, so it is to my great surprise that Potter gestures for me to squeeze in beside him; I suppose he thinks he’s saving me from having to sit next to Finch. He’d be correct. 

“Hands inside the cart at all times please, gentlemen,” the bespectacled goblin reminds our group. He turns around in his seat and glares at Potter with a lip-curling sneer. “And _no_ interacting with the security measures, _Mister Potter._ ” 

“Yes, sir,” Potter mutters petulantly, crossing his arms. He sticks out his tongue at the back of the goblin’s head as soon as the creature has turned around, which has me choking back a laugh. I suppose that’s confirmation of the rumour I heard about Potter and his mates commandeering a dragon to aid in their escape during their Gringotts break-in last year. I’m surprised they’re allowing Potter down here at all; goblins are supremely distrustful of wizards who have broken their rules. 

As soon as the goblin has taken his seat behind us, he releases the brake on the cart. It begins rolling along the track, picking up speed as we descend deeper into the belly of the bank. We fly past vaults one through 400 and begin to slow towards the end of the 500s. Once the cart’s airbrakes have brought us to a gentle halt, our goblin companion announces, “Vault six-hundred-eighty-seven.” Potter pulls a pewter key from his pocket and passes it to the goblin, who jostles his way past Auror Finch in order to disembark the cart. 

“Sorry, Finch, but I’ll need you to get out so that I can, too,” Potter says loudly, extremely displeased by the goblin’s poor treatment of our companion. I follow Finch as well, though Potter could probably climb over me without much trouble. He grabs the lantern the goblin has intentionally left on the edge of the platform and carries it over to the door of his vault, which is visible from where Finch and I are standing. 

When I hear the key scrape its way into the lock, I turn around to give Potter some privacy. The contents of his vault certainly aren’t my business, and I’d rather not have that sort of information floating around in my head in the event that someone else were to worm their way past the barriers I’ve set up to guard the less desirable memories I’ve retained. Finch does no such thing, to my annoyance, and his sharp intake of breath at the sight of Potter’s vault has me clenching my teeth. I can’t do shit about it, of course, because my bloody wand is at Hogwarts, and it’s illegal for me to perform Legilimency without consent. 

No such prohibition has been placed on the use of Occlumency, however, so by retreating into the recesses of my mind, I manage to block out the rattle of coins that Potter is undoubtedly stowing in his purse. I’ve barely started poking at the barriers of my mind when I feel a flutter of movement against my arm. When I resurface a half-second later, blinking in the dim light of our cavernous surroundings, I see that Potter’s hand is resting gently against my bicep. 

“Alright, Malfoy?” he asks, his dark, thick brows drawn together with concern. 

“Just lost in thought,” I say with a fleeting smile. “Nothing to worry about.” 

“Let’s head back up, then?” he proposes. “The sooner we find those tents, the sooner we can be looking at things that aren’t tent-related.” I follow him back into our shared bench, and Finch allows the goblin to climb up into his place at the back before tucking his body into his own seat. 

* * * * * 

“You’ve got to be joking,” I repeat, staring Potter down as we both crouch inside the smallest tent I’ve ever seen. “I wouldn’t even subject a _dog_ to sleep in such a tight space, Potter. This is ridiculous.” 

“This is how Muggles camp,” he insists, throwing his hands up defensively. “This is a regular 2-person tent, Malfoy. It’s really only meant for sleeping, see, and the rest of the day, when you’re up and moving, you’re meant to be outside enjoying the great outdoors.” 

“Have you no recollection of the house I was raised in?” I demand, my tone just shy of indignant. “I avoid being outdoors for long stretches of time at all costs.” 

“Well, that’s going to be a problem,” Potter huffs, reaching out and giving me a weak shove to indicate that we may extract ourselves from this bread-bag of a tent. “The whole point of camping is to spend time outside. I heard someone’s arranged for us to do some fishing and hiking, and those things both require—” 

“I know what they _require,_ Potter,” I snap, “I’m not an imbecile.” 

“Never said you were,” he says, frowning in apology. “I’m just trying to explain why the tents are so much smaller than you’re used to. I didn’t mean anything else by it.” 

“Fine,” I force myself to agree with him. “We’ll get these awful tents, and then we’ll go and look elsewhere in this establishment for hiking boots. And don’t ask why I don’t have any, or I swear to Merlin I’ll—” I’ll do _nothing,_ because Auror Finch is giving me the stink eye. Apparently threatening bodily harm (in jest, of course) is on the list of things he’s been told to watch out for. 

Potter grabs ten plastic-wrapped rectangles that supposedly contain tents (I’ve never seen a tent stored this way, but if Potter insists…) and deposits them in the basket of the trolley he’s been pushing around the store. As we make our way towards the men’s footwear section, I occasionally ask about this contraption or that. Most of these things are entirely foreign to me, even though I’ve learned all sorts of things about Muggle camping in class. He tells me about electric lanterns – which are confusing, because why couldn’t you just use a regular one – and ‘glamping’, which seems to be more my cup of tea, rather than whatever the hell McGonagall has us doing. 

I also receive a lengthy reprimand when I look at hiking boots just long enough to find the pair with the highest price tag. Potter insists that price is not necessarily indicative of quality or comfort, which makes _no_ sense. Muggles have the most ridiculous way of pricing items for sale. Instead, Potter has me _put the shoes on my feet and walk around in them,_ even though other people have almost certainly done exactly the same thing with this same pair of shoes. 

I would much rather have gone the route of bespoke boots, but there isn’t enough time before the trip to order them from our cobbler in Provence. This brown pair with the ankle supports will have to suffice for now. 

Once he’s paid for the tents and my shoes (he insists on spending school money on both), Potter shrinks the tent boxes and tucks them into his pocket as though they’re a collection of toothpicks. 

Potter continues to baffle me by taking me into a Muggle clothing store, where there is no tailor to help with fitting. Apparently, one just searches through a pile of identical shirts or trousers to find an approximate size, and then tries it on in a fitting room (where absolutely _no_ actual fitting occurs, mind you). If it is to your liking, you discard the hanger by leaving it with a _sales associate_ (hardly the word I would use to describe someone who supervises patrons to discourage shoplifting), and then present your selections to another employee at the front counter so you can purchase the items you’ve chosen. 

“This all seems very time-consuming,” I murmur to Potter as the ‘cashier’ scans the tag on each item with a gun that emits a red laser. “Why wouldn’t you just have your measurements taken, and then specify what styles and colours you’d like to the tailor?” 

“That just isn’t how things are done,” Potter says with a shrug. “It was done that way 100 years ago, but now there are factories that can produce large volumes of shirts in a variety of colours and sizes for a fraction of the price it costs for clothes to be individually tailored.” 

“Fascinating,” I muse, handing a bill to the woman shooting my purchases with her laser gun. Potter swats at my hand, and I pull it back towards me reflexively. “What the hell?” 

“She’s just told you the cost,” he reminds me, “And you’re giving her a bill much larger than what she’s asked for. Look at what you’ve got and try to choose something closer to the actual amount so it’ll be easier for her to give you change.” 

I grumble at his correction, but I suppose it makes sense. I choose another bill, show it to Potter, and hand it over once it receives a nod of approval. The Muggle woman just stares at me, mouth open and chewing gum on display, like I’m some sort of extraterrestrial. This sets my blood boiling, because _dammit_ , I’m trying my best here! 

“He’s from, uh, Australia,” Potter explains, pinching my arm when I open my mouth to say that he’s telling a lie. “They use all different bills and coins over there. Barmy, isn’t it?” The cashier nods in confused agreement, but I don’t have time to refute this ridiculous story before Potter makes me grab the bag containing my purchases, and pushes me out the front door, back onto the high street. Finch, doing his best to stifle his laughter, follows close behind. 

“What is your problem?” I bark, turning on Potter as soon as the shop door has swung shut. “Why are you telling lies to the sales staff?” 

“What else am I supposed to say?” Potter questions, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and yanking on it. I know for a fact that it will stick that way now that he’s encouraged it to stand on end like that. “You sound English, but you act entirely different from anyone most Muggles have ever met. It confuses them more if I don’t give an explanation for why you sound like a lunatic!” 

“A lunatic, eh?” I say, my voice going deadly quiet. “Am I so similar to my Aunt Bella, Potter, that you would use that word to describe me? Have I gone batty like old Walburga, or lost my marbles in Azkaban like her son, your traitor of a godfather?” 

I know I’ve just dealt a low blow, but being accused of madness is a touchy subject for those of us descended from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. It’s the inbreeding – generations of cousins marrying cousins – that has cursed us with madness, in exchange for maintaining wealth beyond comprehension, and the highest of social standings. 

“If Azkaban doesn’t get you,” my father often threatened me as a child, “The passing of time will surely warp your mind.” His words echo in my mind, along with Aunt Bella’s maniacal laughter, and the wild shouts from cousin Sirius’ mug shot on the front page of the Prophet. _You’re next, young Draco,_ I hear repeated over and over in the Dark Lord’s terrible rasp of a voice. _You’re next._ Shaking my head, I dispel the voices and laughter and screams just in time to hear Potter’s response. 

“Fuck…that’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Potter sighs, ignoring my dig about his dead godfather. Whether he meant to or not, Potter’s touched a particularly sensitive nerve in me, and I’m not just going to let him get away with it. 

“Auror Finch, I think it’s time I returned to Hogwarts,” I announce, my voice sharp and grating. “Would you please walk me back to the Leaky Cauldron? Potter seems to know his way, so I’m sure he’ll get back just fine without you.” 

And with that, I storm off in the direction of the Cauldron, Potter be damned. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day before the camping trip, some weird shit goes down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I say they didn't die in the Battle of Hogwarts, then they didn't die at the Battle of Hogwarts.

All of the eighth-years have gathered in our common room for one last meeting before we embark on our “Camping Adventure”, as McGonagall has insisted on calling it. There are twenty students in total and no faculty chaperones. As we’re all of age and have elected to return to school to make up the year we missed because of the war, it has been decided that we don’t need extra adult supervision. Instead, McGonagall has elected two Muggle-born students – Hermione Granger and Justin Finch-Fletchley (Hufflepuff, and of no relation to my auror babysitter) – to head up the excursion.

The Weasel threw quite the snit over not being selected as Granger’s trip-planning partner in crime, going so far as to imply that Fletchley wasn’t fit for the job; apparently, his family aren’t as avid about shitting in the woods as the Weasleys are. Granger herself reprimanded the freckle-face git for his boorish behaviour, reminding him that camping is entirely different when one can wash dishes and start fires with magic. I think Weaselby is just jealous of the time Fletchley is getting to spend poring over trail maps and grocery lists with Granger. 

We’ve all sat ourselves on whatever surface we can find in our tiny common room, and are paying attention (or trying our best, at least) to Granger as she carries on about the joys of Muggle transportation. Not only are we stuck sleeping in tents the size of an envelope next to classmates we don’t know well, but apparently we aren’t allowed to use Apparition or portkeys to travel, so we’ll have to travel in _vans_. If my father had any clout left at Hogwarts, I’m sure McGonagall wouldn’t hear the end of it for the next decade. 

“Where will our luggage and coolers go?” Hannah Abbott inquires, ever the pragmatist. “Surely if we have ten people in one vehicle, there’ll be no room for anything else – it’ll be like one of those tiny cars that clowns squeeze themselves into at the circus.” 

“It’ll be a tight fit, yes, but if we use our space wisely, and don’t bring our entire wardrobes along,” Granger answers, glancing my way, “Then we should be able to make it work.” A chorus of laughter from behind me reveals that Millie and Pansy heartily agree with Granger’s pointed assumption about my tendency to over-pack. Traitors, the lot of them, even if it’s true. 

“Will it be boys in one van and girls in the other, or…?” Lavender Brown inquires, her pinched tone making it crystal clear where she stands on the subject. 

“Just to give everyone a bit of space before we shove you together with your assigned partner for the next week, we’ll be splitting you into groups. I’ve posted the list of vehicle arrangements on the bulletin board, and you can take a look at that after I’ve finish—” 

Most of the gathered students jump out of their seats, eager to have a look at the list. I stay seated because I don’t much care who I’ll be travelling with. So long as the person in charge of the radio isn’t an idiot with horrible taste in music, I’m sure it’ll be fine. I am pleased, however, that Potter and I won’t be in the same vehicle. We haven’t talked since our argument in London, and I think it best if we continue to keep our distance. 

After Granger has called the group back to order, she instructs us to pack our bags, have a friend go over the packing list with us to make sure we haven’t forgotten anything important, and drop our luggage off in the common room before we head off to bed. We’re set to depart for eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning, which means we’re to be up and ready to go by half seven, and breakfast will be distributed on the road. 

On my way to my dormitory, I pass by the bulletin board, more out of boredom than anything else. Perhaps Blaise or Pansy will be in the same vehicle, and I’ll have someone to commiserate with over my strong disinterest in this trip. The list is split into two columns, one for each vehicle, and names are listed in alphabetical order by surname. Seems simple enough, though I did watch Weaselby stare open-mouthed at the list for nearly a full minute. 

**VAN #1**  
Driver: Granger, Hermione  
Abbott, Hannah  
Boot, Terrence  
Brocklehurst, Amanda  
Brown, Lavender  
Corner, Michael  
Finnegan, Seamus  
Longbottom, Neville  
Malfoy, Draco  
Zabini, Blaise  


**VAN #2**  
Driver: Finch-Fletchley, Justin  
Bullstrode, Millicent  
Greengrass, Daphne  
Macmillan, Ernest  
Nott, Theodore  
Parkinson, Pansy  
Potter, Harry  
Patil, Padma  
Thomas, Dean  
Weasley, Ronald  


Brilliant; the fates have seen fit to deprive me of most of my friends, and instead stuck me in a van full of Gryffindors. I doubt a few hours on the road with Longbottom and Brown will have me ready to trade in my green and silver scarf for red and gold, but at least I’ll have Blaise for company. 

A deep-voiced someone clears his throat behind me. Grateful that the noise didn’t startle me enough to make me jump, I turn around to find a pyjama-clad Harry Potter waiting to speak with me. The tartan print of his long cotton trousers almost matches a pair of witches’ robes I know our headmistress to be fond of, and his t-shirt, a bit tight across his chest, brings out the blue in his eyes. 

“Good to see ickle Potter all ready for bed,” I jeer, pretending to check my non-existent wristwatch. “7:30 is pretty late for you, I suppose. Best get to sleep soon or you’ll be well cross tomorrow.” 

“Honestly, Malfoy,” he groans, his head falling back on his neck in exasperation. It was _that_ easy to distract him from whatever it is he’s come to tell me. “Are you _trying_ to be an arse, or is it just second nature for you at this point?” 

“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean,” I shrug innocently. 

“Whatever,” Potter says, ignoring my comment, “I just wanted to ask if…well, if—” 

“Use your words, Potter,” I sneer, cutting him off. “Come on now, we haven’t got all night.” 

“Fuck you,” he snarls, stepping towards me as though he’s going to give me a good shove. I don’t even brace myself like I might have in years past; instead, I consider what his hands might feel like pressed against my chest. 

“Fuck me yourself,” I shoot back reflexively. It’s something I’d say to Blaise or Theo as a joke, but this probably isn’t the best time to be joking around (especially when I'm only half-joking). Although, if he did push me and I were to crack my head on the table, I might be pardoned from the camping trip… 

“What?” Potter hesitates, blinking owlishly at me from behind his glasses. 

“What?” I repeat, hoping he didn’t quite hear me the first time. 

“Er—never mind,” he says, shaking his head the way Luna Lovegood does when she’s trying to clear her mind of wrackspurts. “I just came to ask if you’d go over my packing list with me.” 

“You can’t ask Weaselby?” 

“Don’t call him that, and no, I can’t,” Potter responds, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the pad of his thumb. “He’s off with Hermione somewhere, I think.” 

“All right, then,” I sigh, pretending that he’s somehow inconveniencing me. If he hadn’t asked me for help, I’d have just sat in bed with one of my mystery novels until lights out. At least this will be productive, and I can guilt him into helping me once we’ve finished with his bag. 

“D’you want to go down to the kitchens and ask the house-elves for snacks first?” Potter wonders aloud. “Dunno about you, but I could use some biscuits and tea right about now.” He turns around, not waiting for my answer. I don't suppose it could really hurt anything, so I follow him. 

“Didn’t we just eat dinner an hour ago?” I ask, picking my way across the common room in his shadow. 

“You don’t have to come,” he says with a shrug. “Just thought it’d be nice to go for a bit of a walk, maybe.” 

_Huh._ If I didn’t know any better, I might think that Potter is trying to spend time with me on purpose. First, it’s packing lists, and now a walk and a spot of tea? Very odd of him, to say the least, but I’m not about to decline a chance to stare at his arse—I mean, get out of the common room for a few minutes. 

We descend the staircase, stepping over the trick stairs without so much as a thought, and make it down to the kitchens in record time. Most of the other students have retired to their common rooms by this time of the evening, so it’s smooth sailing once we’ve collected the treats the house-elves have arranged for us. Luckily, the Black family’s elf works there and has taken well to Harry as the heir to the Black family estate, so we get a good assortment of fruit and sweets. Dobby used to do the same for me when he worked at Hogwarts after he left my family’s employ back in second year. 

As we pass the corridor that leads to the hospital wing, I realize this might be a good time to stop in for my nightly potion. Potter rarely pays attention to his surroundings anyway, so I doubt he’ll make a fuss about what I’m going to ask Madam Pomfrey for. 

“Mind if we stop in to see the matron?” I ask, gesturing down the hall with a tilt of my head. “Just have to grab something.” 

“Oh, good thinking,” he says with a nod. Strange choice of words, but I shrug it off. 

When we push through the swinging doors into the hospital wing, we come face to face with a number of other students, most of them in our year, or perhaps the year or two below us. They’ve all come with the same purpose, it appears, as each walks away with a small medicine cup filled with a shimmering lavender liquid I recognize instantly. Apparently, Pomfrey is dosing a good quarter of the student body with Sleeping Draught. 

“You seem surprised,” Potter observes astutely, drawing my attention. His lack of surprise tells me he’s known about this for ages. 

“I didn’t realize this many people were relying on an extremely addictive potion to fall asleep every night,” I admit, not caring enough to hide my discomfort about this discovery. “It’s one thing that _I_ have trouble, but to know that all of them…” 

“I didn’t know you had trouble sleeping,” Potter murmurs gently. “I’m sorry.” I turn to scowl at him, but something in his eyes convinces me that he’s being genuine. 

“Having an evil megalomaniac move into your family home and torture people on your dining room table tends to have that effect on a person,” I say, shrugging off his concern. My intention wasn’t to shock Potter or anything, but I can’t say I’m displeased when I feel his hand come to rest on the back of my arm, his fingers pressing into my skin in a gesture of comfort. 

“Do you have dreams? Nightmares?” He says it so quietly that I’m sure no one else has heard. It’s the only reason I answer truthfully. 

“Every night.” 

Potter thinks for a moment before replying. “Me, too.” 

Sometimes when I close my eyes during the day, I see things – a snake slithering past my feet, its tongue flickering dangerously close, or Granger writhing under the twisting of my aunt’s wand – like a film playing across the backs of my eyelids. Terrified screams and the scent of hot, pulsing blood fill my head in the moments I don’t fill with something – anything – else. These facts, I keep to myself. 

We eventually reach the front of the line and find that the matron has poured us both what she calls a “special dose” of Sleeping Draught. It’s twice as much as she’s given to everyone else. Apparently, Potter and I are so fucked up, we need this ridiculous dose just to get us through the night. We add our medicine to our tea tray, thank Madam Pomfrey for her time, and head back up to the common room together. 

I don’t even try to trip him on the way. 

* * * * * 

My first time in a Muggle vehicle had better be my last because I _hate_ it. I don’t know how I managed to convince myself that it might go well. It’s all of my least favourite things rolled into one terrible activity: being pressed up against other people, being forced to listen to bad music, and staying in one place for long stretches of time. My leg has been asleep since we hit the A95, and though I’ve tried to readjust myself in this seat, it seems that I’ll be stuck with the sensation of pins and needles running from my hip to my toes until we arrive. Hopefully, an amputation won’t be necessary. 

Granger is driving, and for Merlin knows what reason, she’s allowed Lavender Brown to choose the radio stations. The ridiculous girl must be using magic to tune the radio, because we’ve listened to back-to-back Britney Spears and Spice Girls songs for the last hour, despite _everyone’s_ protests. Now, I won’t claim to know a lot about Muggle music, but I think it’s safe to say that Lavender and I have much different ideas of what constitutes the word ‘good’. 

Blaise nods off just before Granger announces that we’ve about 50 kilometres remaining until we reach our destination. His limp body lurches whichever direction the van does, so when we take a particularly tight turn, I end up with a lapful of Blaise. He may be my best friend, but under no circumstances did I give him permission to drool on my new outfit. Not sure how he could possibly sleep with all this racket – the Gryffindors in the back row have taken up some sort of clapping game, and Granger has Lavender navigating aloud using a paper map. 

Muggle transportation is somehow both exactly and nothing like what I expected. I think I can speak for most people when I say car travel is much less nausea-inducing than travelling by magic. Travelling by portkey is like having a hook pulled through your navel and being yanked through another dimension, and Apparition occasionally results in spontaneous amputation. I’d argue that both are objectively worse than sitting in a metal box on wheels surrounded by Gryffindors. 

Longbottom, the poor sod, is a bit carsick when we first start off, but Granger has him take the front passenger seat for a spell. So long as he isn’t reading, he seems to be fine, so he and Lavender swapped seats again. I’ve been hoping he’ll get annoyed enough by her music choices that he’ll ask for the front seat back. Even if he made us listen to WPR* for the next two hours, it would be a bloody relief. 

The van itself is nothing to write home about. There are sliding doors on each side, and in order to get in or out, one has to climb over everyone already seated. The fabric bench seats aren’t particularly comfortable, and there are some suspicious stains on the middle bench that encouraged me to choose my seat carefully. I do appreciate the glass windows because it allows us to see what’s happening around us as we travel. We were so excited by the first car we saw on the motorway that didn’t belong to the other half of our group that we pointed and waved at the child in the backseat, who returned our enthusiasm. 

The vehicle has several other interesting functions and features. There are buttons and dials that allow for temperature regulation, so the windows never even have to be open, and no fire is required. There are ‘cup holders’ that allow you to set down your beverage without it tipping over and spilling on the floor. The backs of the seats have mesh-fabric pockets to store books, magazines, or maps when not in use. 

My favourite thing, though, is the electric lighting in the ceiling of the vehicle. If we were travelling at night and I wanted to read, I could just press a button, and a small light would turn on! We learned about electricity in Muggle Studies years ago, but this is really the first opportunity I’ve had to see it in action, other than when Potter and I went to London last week. 

All this being said, I still hate this van, and I have no interest in travelling the Muggle way ever again after this trip is all said and done. 

Granger instructed us before leaving Hogsmeade to use the ‘safety belts’, which are a strap of fabric that goes over our laps and chests so that in the event of a collision, we won’t be thrown out the van’s windscreen. This concerning possibility has led my fellow passengers and I to dub our vehicle ‘The Magical Muggle Death Machine’ (or ‘MMDM’ for short). 

As displeased as I am about having to go on this trip, I’m extremely grateful to see the signage along the motorway indicating that we’ve arrived at the campground. I’ll have the chance to stretch, and breathe air that doesn’t smell vaguely like whatever manure Longbottom has tracked into the MMDM on the bottoms of his shoes. I don’t think this is what Professor Sprout meant when she told us that we’d always remember our time in Herbology. 

Granger stops the vehicle outside a small building where she picks up permits for our vehicle, and a map of the campground. She and Fletchley, who has parked beside us, discuss their plan of action before climbing back into the vehicles, and then it’s only a few more minutes before we arrive at our campsite. 

* * * * * 

The space Granger has reserved is actually rather pretty, I have to admit. There are picnic tables for cooking and eating, nicely trimmed grassy areas to pitch tents, and the whole site is ringed with trees to provide a bit of privacy from other campsites. I’m dreading to find out what the toilet situation will be like, but perhaps if I focus on how lovely the site itself is, I’ll be able to ignore the idea of shitting into a hole. 

As we unload the vehicles, Fletchley lists off the amenities of the campsite so that we can get an idea of what activities we might be interested in doing once we’ve set up our tents and had a spot of lunch. Granger collects our wands “as a precaution” so that we aren’t tempted to take shortcuts as we get our site ready for use. She also instructs us to find our partners, because from this point on, we’ll be “working together on all tasks and activities.” _Fuck._

If Potter and I had left things where they were after our trip to London, I think this would be a much easier situation to navigate. We’re used to not speaking, not getting on well. That’s a familiar dynamic for us and has been for years. This _whatever it is_ that’s going on between us is another story entirely. 

Last night, we had our moment in the hospital wing, and that was weird enough. When we got back to the common room, we had our tea, talked with friends, what have you – which was even weirder, because I talked to Granger and _actually enjoyed it,_ and Potter ended up engaged in a discussion with Pansy about flowers, of all things. He was practically beaming when he caught me laughing at a joke Weasley told (the one decent joke he’s ever made, I’m sure). When we excused ourselves to run over our packing lists, I couldn’t help but notice the odd look Pansy exchanged with Hermione, as if they were surprised that Potter and I were capable of completing a single mundane task. 

The weirdest thing, really, was that Potter and I actually had a decent time together, finishing our packing for the camping trip. I sat on his bed and checked off items as he showed me proof of having put it in his bag, and he did the same for me. There was a surprising amount of laughter, mostly due to the fact that I was making an actual effort to understand Muggle life, but not quite getting it. Apparently, you can’t just wear a zip-up hoodie without a shirt underneath; “it’s all about layers,” he said. I was told to leave my potions textbooks behind because only “books for leisure” are allowed when camping. Potter teased me constantly, but for the first time, didn’t make me feel stupid for the things I didn’t know or understand quite right. 

When we had our bags ready, we brought them down to the common room, as Granger had asked us to do. The room was empty, as most everyone else had retired to their dormitories for the night. Blaise had actually thrown a pillow at my head just minutes before and asked Potter to kick me out of their room for the night because I was being “too loud”. We found the pile where the luggage was meant to go, set our bags down, and ended up loitering a bit longer than we intended to finish up the conversation, which was about our time playing Quidditch for our house teams. 

“Potter, you can’t just support the Cannons because Weasley does,” I insisted, leaning against the arm of the leather sofa nearest the boys’ dormitories. “They lose miserably every year because they can’t keep a decent Seeker.” 

“I’m not saying I have a good reason to support them,” Potter grinned, the light of the fire crackling in the hearth reflecting in his eyes. “Why don’t you try selling me on your team?” 

Dismayed by his blatant lack of team loyalty, I started to argue with him for really no reason. He stood beside me, smiling wider the more worked up I got, until all I could think of was kissing that stupid smile off his face. I almost did it, too, but I didn’t get the chance because suddenly, he was kissing the frown off _my_ face. His hands were on my hips, with mine tangled in his hair, and the frames of his glasses were digging into my cheek as his mouth moved against mine but I _just didn’t give a shit_ because _finally_ this was happening. When his fingers grazed against the skin just under my shirt, I groaned into his mouth, which had him smiling against mine. 

And as quickly as it started, it ended. The common room door opened, and we flew apart, smoothing down our hair and our adjusting clothes like nothing at all had happened. It was only Dean and Seamus on their way back from the toilets, and they paid us no attention, caught up in their own discussion about who the hell cares. As soon as they were out of sight, I turned back towards Potter to ask what the _fuck_ that kiss had been for, but the spell was broken, and he was mortified. 

“Fuck, I don’t…Draco, I’m so sorry,” he stammered, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I don’t even know what happened, I was just—” 

“No, no! Don’t apologize,” I insisted, “I don’t know what happened either, but—” 

Before I could say, “Merlin’s beard, I’ve wanted this for ages,” Potter had turned tail and scurried off to his dormitory. There was no way I could go after him; it was late, it would be rude to wake his roommates by shouting at him that he’s an idiot, and (probably most important of all) I had no idea what had just happened, or why. What if this was the result of a faulty spell, or a love potion gone wrong? I would be mad to try and confront him about this after seeing how upset he had been. 

So, here we are – staring at the box containing our Muggle tent and avoiding each other’s gaze like the plague, more confused than ever about how to behave. Granger expects us to play house together for a week, to bond and promote “house unity” as McGonagall wants us to when all we both want is for the ground to open up and swallow us both, saving us from the hell we’ve somehow created. 

“You’ve done this before, right?” I say eventually because it’s clear he’s not going to break the world’s most awkward silence. 

“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘P’ like a teenage girl with a mouthful of chewing gum. “My relatives kept me locked in a cupboard until I was eleven, remember? Didn’t present many opportunities for camping.” 

“Well, fuck,” I sigh, continuing to stare at the box in the hopes that it will magically assemble itself. (It doesn’t, in case you were wondering) 

“Fuck, indeed,” Potter mutters to himself, nodding. “Fuck, indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WPR - Wizard Public Radio


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camping day 1 - tent set-up and 'Never Have I Ever'.

Muggle tents come with an _instruction manual._ How bloody brilliant is that? It’s as if they know that clueless wizards like Potter and I will find ourselves on a shit camping trip. I open the manual and find that there are both pictures and written instructions, which Potter comments is “much more helpful than whatever the hell IKEA sends out.” I don’t have the slightest idea what an IKEA is, but I take his word for it; this might actually not be the worst hour of our lives.

“So, I’ll read the instructions aloud, and you can assemble the tent,” I tell Potter, waving a hand towards the canvas bag I’ve pulled from the box. 

“And why should _I_ have to do all the grunt work while you just stand there and watch?” he enquires, setting his hands on his hips. “Surely you need more practice with Muggle stuff than I do.” 

“You know the names of all the pieces of the tent,” I remind him. “If I’m in charge of the actual set-up, it’ll take twice as long.” 

“Fine by me,” he shrugs, swatting at a fly buzzing around his head. “S’not like we’ve got anywhere to be for the next week.” 

Unbelievable. 

“Fine,” I huff, tossing the manual at him. The pages flutter wildly, but he manages to catch it. “Read me the first step, and don’t skip over anything even if it seems intuitive to you. And point to each piece as you name them.” Potter lets out a long sigh, as though I’m somehow being a dreadful inconvenience. 

“D’you want me to make you a cup of tea and rub your feet as well?” he asks snarkily. Crinkling my nose, I give him the smarmiest grin I can manage. 

“Hilarious.” 

All of the pieces required for the tent are in the canvas bag, so I loosen the drawstring and take them out one by one. There’s a bit of plastic folded into a thousand rectangles, a bag full of some rods, and two pieces of canvas with a variety of zippers and plastic bobbles dangling from bits of nylon thread. How on earth is this supposed to protect us from the elements, or keep us warm? I’ve got handkerchiefs thicker than this stuff! 

“So, says here the first thing to do is select an appropriate site to place the tent,” Harry says, glancing over the top of the instruction manual at the ground around us. 

“What are the criteria for an ‘appropriate’ site?” I inquire patiently. 

“Doesn’t say that,” he replies, scratching a hand through his hair. We’ve been here for less than an hour and already he’s destroyed whatever semblance of order he managed to comb it into. “I’d think that we should choose someplace where the ground is level, and doesn’t have a bunch of rocks?” 

“Alright,” I nod, crouching down to have a look at the grading of the soil. “Doesn’t look like a hill to me, and the ground is grassy. No sign of any pesky rocks.” Potter is looking at me with an odd smile. I’m not sure what it means, so I don’t like it. 

“Next, we’re supposed to lay out the ground sheet.” 

“Right. What is that, and for what purpose do we need it?” Potter shows me the diagram, which illustrates a flat rectangular sheet (aptly named, I see) that’s meant to sit between the ground and the tent itself. 

“It’s to prevent the tent from getting wet if the ground’s holding moisture, or if it rains,” he explains. “We’re supposed to take our shoes off outside the tent, so if we were walking around in our socks and the bottom was wet, it’d get our socks all nasty.” 

“That…actually seems quite smart,” I muse. Perhaps Muggles do know a thing or two. “And _of course_ we’re supposed to take off our shoes. We’re not animals. No sense in tracking dirt all around the place we’re supposed to sleep.” 

“Priss,” I hear him mutter. 

“Mongrel,” I shoot back. 

Based on the materials I’ve unpacked, I determine that the ground sheet is the bit made of heavy plastic. It’s sturdy enough to stand the wear and tear of being walked on, and it seems the most waterproof material of the lot. Sure enough, it turns out to be an evenly cut rectangle once I’ve unfolded it. 

“I imagine we’ll need to decide which way we’d like the tent to face before I put this down, because the sides aren’t all the same length,” I tell Potter. “What’s your preference?” 

“Er…I suppose it depends on where the sun’s going to rise, and um…how much privacy we’d like,” he says, swallowing hard. His cheeks flush, which makes _me_ blush as well, though it’s much more visible on me because I’m so bloody pale. 

_What the hell is he playing at? What on earth would we need privacy for?_

“Yes, well,” I say awkwardly, clearing my throat. “There are windows on the sides of the tent. I’d prefer not to have the sun in my eyes first thing in the morning, if possible.” 

“Rises in the east, so our best bet is to have the door on _that_ side,” he suggests, pointing to where he thinks it should go. 

“Very well,” I agree, giving the tarp a good shake like I’d spread a blanket out on my bed, so it’ll lay as flat as possible. “Does that look straight to you, Potter?” 

“It’ll do,” he shrugs. “Don’t think Hermione’s likely to come over with a tape measure to check, but if it matters so much to you…” 

“Lay out the tent on top of the ground sheet,” he instructs. “It’ll be a bit of an odd shape before it’s standing, but the base of it will still be a rectangle, if that makes any sense – sort of like a pyramid.” I envision the way the tent will look standing, and just as Potter says, it makes sense that the bottom will match the shape of the ground sheet. 

Assembling the tent poles is the most enjoyable part of the whole process. Potter agrees to help me put them together which makes the task go much more quickly. It also results in me getting poked in the face about six times – at least four of which were intentional, despite his insistence that it was “completely an accident, honestly, Malfoy!” I give as good as I get, and by the time we’ve got them all set up, we’re giggling like little girls. 

“How’s it coming along, boys?” Granger asks as she approaches, pulling us from our reverie. Instead of scolding us for our tent-pole jousting match, she just bites the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing. 

“Once we’ve got these poles in, I think we’re nearly finished,” Potter says, “So I’d say we’re doing well.” 

“Well, don’t take too long,” she recommends, gesturing with her clipboard over her shoulder towards the rest of our group. Almost everyone else has already got their tents up, it appears. They probably weren’t messing around as much as we were. “Blaise and Seamus are getting a couple fires going, so we can start roasting wieners. Don’t want to be late for that,” she says with a wink. 

“Sure, we’ll be along in a minute,” I tell her, gesturing lamely to our flat tent. Granger marches off to continue her inspections, and Potter and I scramble to finish assembling our tent. He was right – once we’ve threaded the poles through the canvas and clicked them into place, all we have left to do is insert the tent pegs to keep the thing from moving or blowing away. 

“I’ll find a big rock or something so we can get those pegs in,” he offers. I know for a fact that Fletchley has a small mallet for exactly this purpose, but the idea of Potter going on a rock hunt is too cute. 

“I’ll toss our bags into the tent and set up the bedrolls, if that’s alright?” 

“Sure, sounds good. You can choose whichever side you’d like; doesn’t matter to me where I sleep.” 

_In my arms is preferable,_ I think, but I say no such thing. He wanders off in search of his rock, and I unzip the door of the tent, slip out of my new hiking boots, and step inside, hauling our bags in with me. 

It’s hardy bigger than the mattresses we sleep on at Hogwarts, so I have to crouch to keep from bumping my head on the sloped ceiling; very limited personal space, as I expected. There’s just enough room for about an inch of space between our bedrolls. In a stroke of genius, I realize that we can sleep at opposite ends of the tent. If Potter’s feet are beside my head, it’ll reduce the chances that I’ll make a fool of myself by cuddling up to him in the middle of the night or something. 

Whoever was in charge of purchasing bedrolls made the decision to buy them in our house colours to reduce confusion about who they belong to – a bit cliché, but I actually like the look of them. I run my hand along the cool, slippery fabric on the outside of mine before unzipping it to find a soft layer of emerald and cream tartan flannel. It looks warm, and I’m glad; I hate being cold at night. 

“Found one!” Potter’s voice announces. Crawling towards the door on my hands and knees, I poke my head out to see one _extraordinarily_ pleased Harry Potter, large stone in hand. “Found it at this brilliant beach not far from here, Malfoy. You’ve got to come see it later, alright?” His expression is blindingly bright; when was the last time I saw him so happy about something? It’s a bloody rock, for Merlin’s sake. 

“Why not,” I concede easily. How could I deny this boy anything when he’s looking at me like _that_? Potter gets to work on the tent pegs, whistling a jaunty little tune from the old animated film we watched in Muggle Studies earlier this year – _Snow White and Some Dwarves,_ I think it was called. 

Once I’ve got things situated inside the tent as best I can, I join him outside again. He’s holding up the last remaining piece from the bag the tent came in, trying to figure out what to do with it. 

“This is an extra bit to put over the tent, just in case it rains,” he says, glancing down at the instruction manual on the ground. “I don’t think we need to put it on. There’s not a cloud in sight.” 

“This is Scotland,” I remind him, raising an eyebrow at his bold assertion. “Seems risky to not set it up just in case.” 

Some Gryffindor boys call Potter’s name from across the campsite, and we look to see a whole group of our classmates with pointy metal sticks in hand, gathered around a fire. The sticks are for skewering and cooking sausages, I know, which means that we’re about to miss the beginning of supper. A growl from Potter’s stomach tells me that the rain fly will have to wait. 

“We’ll set it aside for now, but we’ll deal with it later, alright?” he suggests. 

“Sure,” I shrug nonchalantly, even though it makes me nervous to leave things to chance. Blaise says I need to not be so uptight all the time if I want to make more friends, and I’ve decided to try it out on this camping trip. “Food awaits.” 

* * * * * 

A few hours after dinner, Pansy pulls out a flask and insists we “play a little game”. 

“We’re supposed to get to know each other, aren’t we?” she reminds us. “What better way to do that than by sharing secrets?” Longbottom and Weasley take this as their cue to haul out an ice-filled cooler full of bottled drinks – non-alcoholic Butterbeer, Gigglewater (an American import), Wizard’s Brew, and Dragon Scale (my personal favourite). 

“I…suppose that could be fun,” Granger admits, eyeing the flask with curiosity. “What sort of game do you have in mind?” 

“We could play ‘Truth or Dare’,” Padma suggests, nodding politely at Theo as he hands over the Butterbeer he’s fetched for her. He quit drinking after the war, and Padma never did in the first place, so they take turns buying alcohol-free drinks to share at the parties hosted in our common room. 

“Or not,” Hannah Abbott counters. “That’s what first-years play when they want to make each other admit who they’ve got a crush on.” 

“What would you suggest instead, Abbott?” Blaise inquires, arching an eyebrow at the Hufflepuff. She narrows her eyes at him, but I notice the smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. The pair has been flirting for weeks, but neither is willing to make the first move. Perhaps tonight will be the night? 

“How about ‘Never Have I Ever’? That’s got more potential for getting at the good stuff,” she answers. Murmurs of assent go up within the group. 

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” Daphne agrees, elbowing Lavender with a smirk. “Lav and I played it with Ginny and Luna once, and it was brilliant fun.” 

“Zip your lips, Greengrass,” Lavender laughs, pointing a finger in her face. “What happens at Luna’s stays at Luna’s.” 

Glancing around the campfire, I realize that we’ve somehow all become friends this year despite our history, our families, and the preconceived notions we had of each other. Pansy has her arm around Granger’s shoulder, and is genuinely laughing at something she’s said. Millie and Mandy are going on about their cats. Blaise and Seamus take turns tending to the fires, pulling wood from the huge pile they chopped (with axes, not magic) earlier in the day. The Slytherins and Gryffindors wouldn’t have been caught dead sitting beside each other before this year, but the sights before me tell a new story – we’ve got more in common than we used to think. 

In moments like this, I wish I could fit in with everyone like the rest of my housemates have. I wish I were worthy of having friends that care about me. 

“I can smell you thinking,” Potter teases gently, nudging me with his shoulder. I’m smiling, but apparently he’s seen right through it. I turn to see that he’s been watching me for who knows how long. “What’s on your mind?” 

“Oh, you know,” I say vaguely, shrugging my shoulders. 

“No, I don’t,” Harry admits, “That’s why I’m asking. You get this little wrinkle _right here_ when you’re really focused.” He presses his thumb between my eyebrows as if to smooth my cares away. The warmth of his skin against mine lights me on fucking fire, but I can’t move away. 

“Oi, Potter!” Blaise shouts from across the campfire. “Quit flirting with Draco and join the game.” 

The spark between us dies like a candle in the wind. I’m going to have to kill Blaise. 

“Quit flirting with Hannah and ask her out already,” Potter counters, raising his eyebrows as if he expects Blaise to fight back. 

The entire group roars with laughter, and someone clinks a spoon against a bottle, shouting, “Hear! Hear!” Hannah blows Blaise a kiss, which has him grinning like an idiot. I want so badly to sneak a peek at Potter, to see if he’s looking at me again, but my pride keeps me from doing so. If he wants me, he can do something about it. 

When things have settled down a bit, Pansy gathers everyone’s attention, instructs us all to have a drink of some sort in hand, and explains the rules of the game. As the self-declared mistress of ceremonies (I don’t think that’s a thing, but whatever), she goes first. 

“Never have I ever…snogged someone I didn’t know,” she declares. Several people take a drink, but no one surprising. Pansy turns to Granger, whose turn it is next. 

“Hmm…” she pondered her options. “Oh! Never have I ever cheated on a test.” Groans chorus around the circle, and the only people that don’t end up drinking are Granger and I. Scandalous, I tell you. 

“Never have I ever shown up high to class,” Padma says, glancing immediately to Theo with a knowing grin. 

“Rude of you not to pretend that never happened,” he tells her, sipping at his Butterbeer. “Last time I sit next to you in class, _Patil._ ” 

And so it goes around the circle: _Lied to a professor. Snuck out of the castle. Gone skinny-dipping. Kissed a boy. Kissed a girl. Taken something from a friend without asking first._ By the time it gets around to Longbottom, I’m halfway through my first Dragon Scale, and Potter has only a sip or two left of his. 

“Never have I ever been in love,” Neville admits sheepishly. Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. I drink without thinking, realizing too late that my friends are watching me, socked. 

“With who?” Pansy questions. “You’ve never so much as had a boyfriend, Draco.” 

“You fancy blokes?” Weasley chokes out as if he’s never heard of such a thing before. Which is bloody hilarious, because I know for a fact that his brother Percy does, too. I walked in on him and Oliver Wood with their tongues down each other’s throats in the doorway of the prefects’ bathroom back in second year. 

“Thanks for that, Pansy,” I sigh, my voice thick with sarcasm. “And Weasley – close your mouth before a spider crawls in. Yes, I’m gay.” It’s my turn in the game, but I’m not much in the mood to keep playing. 

“Me too,” Potter blurts out beside me. The circle goes silent; all eyes are on him now. “In fifth year, kissed Cho Chang, and it was awful – terribly awkward, erm, beyond the fact that she cried. About her dead boyfriend. While we were kissing.” 

, _Oh god. Potter, stop talking,_ I scream internally. _I’m begging you._

“And I thought I loved Ginny Weasley,” he continues, “But when – close your ears, Ron – when she tried to…erm, y’know, _take things further,_ I panicked, because I have absolutely _no_ interest in having sex with women.” 

Crickets. 

“Wow,” Blaise says after a minute, speaking for all of us. “I guess that’s…one way to figure it out. Good for you, mate.” He holds up his beer in the world’s most awkward cheers, and everyone else follows suit. Everyone but me, that is, because I’ve managed to slip away from the circle while they were all focused on Potter’s narration of his sexuality crisis. 

It’s been dark for a few hours, which I take to mean that it’s probably late enough to go to bed. Using the battery-powered torch Granger insisted I bring, I wind my way past a few tents, and narrowly avoid tripping on the rock Potter used to secure our tent pegs. That man is a bloody menace, I tell you. 

Once I’ve crawled into the tent, I hurry to change into my pyjamas. Someone could come looking for me at any moment, and I’d rather not be caught with my pants down (literally, in this case). I consider for a moment whether I actually want someone to look for me; perhaps it’s best if I have some time alone to think. 

* * * * * 

Potter practically falls into our tent when he comes to bed. He’s not a bumbling drunk like his friend Weasley, but his balance is most definitely compromised, based on the fact that he trips over my legs, waking me up. 

“Draco!” he says in what I think was meant to be a whisper (spoiler: it wasn’t). “Draco, are you asleep?” 

“I was until you kicked me,” I grumble, shoving my face into my pillow. Something made of fabric falls on top of my head, but I don’t identify it as Potter’s shirt until I hear him struggling to peel off his jeans. 

Merlin, please don’t tell me he’s about make a drunken confession while half-naked in the two cubic centimetres of space we’re sharing for the next week. Oh, and have I mentioned that Muggle tents aren’t soundproof? He continues to rattle around doing who knows what until I can’t take it anymore. 

“Would you _please_ be quiet, Potter?” I hiss, sitting up in my bedroll. “Some people need a full eight hours of rest to be functional the next day, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop doing whatever it is you’re doing and _go to bed_.” 

Completely oblivious to my attempts at creating space between us, Potter has turned his bedroll around and thrown his pillow so that he’ll be sleeping with his head directly next to mine. 

_“Pfft,”_ he snorts, “I’m not sleeping with your feet in my face, you numpty. How do I know you don’t kick in your sleep? I’d prefer to wake up with all my teeth intact, thanks.” He’s changed into his pyjamas (thank god) and is sliding into the insulated pocket of his bedroll, which is a good start. Now he just needs to hush up. 

“Fine,” I acquiesce, lying back down and turning to face away from him. “Now kindly close your eyes and stop bothering me. We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” 

As I drift off to sleep for the second time, I swear I hear a distant roll of thunder. 


End file.
